


Swallow and Lilies

by iamfeelingverywhale



Category: Original Work
Genre: Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hope, Loss, M/M, Other, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamfeelingverywhale/pseuds/iamfeelingverywhale
Summary: Like any other kids, Timothy had a dream. He dreamed big, he had hope. A boy with no worries. He was ready for anything that would come. Or so he thought.At the age of seven,  Timothy was lost. It wouldn't take long for him to be found again.
Relationships: Original Character/Other(s), Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character





	Swallow and Lilies

**Author's Note:**

> Love, despair, loss, and all. He will eventually find that he isn't alone.

I.

It occurs to him many times, more and more lately.

They were still kids, an almighty one whose dream was big enough to cover the entire galaxy. And then, there's the other, whose wish was just to see more of tomorrow.

They were not supposed to meet. But then, there was a fire. Shades of red. A ton of dark smoke that ascended and blended in the night sky. A house that was once built by strong pieces of wood and concrete promising the last long-staying was burnt down to the ground in a span of milliseconds. Reports said it was because of gas, a reckless wife could have forgotten to turn off the stove. There were other hypotheses made apparently, but that too was of no avail. It was just one of those accidents, no thrills nor worth following. It would never make it to the front page. People would still continue living their lives as they did yesterday. A tiny picture that imprinted in the corner of the newspaper changed nothing. The world is still moving. No one hears nor says of the house sitting at the top of the hill, of the boy who said to conquer the world in his little voice yet with wild determination.

Amid the scorching air and shoutings and running, there was a quiet cry.

The casualties were counted. They found a boy—alive with faint breathing—huddle against a wall in the backyard. He was quickly sent to the hospital. No permanent nor serious injuries found, only a small, non-threatening burnt scar on the left ankle. The boy was physically safe.

He was then sent to another place a few hours after he stirred to consciousness. The ride was not long and it took him to a brick house that looked so lonely with the sun simmering its morning light just above the far horizon.

He was picky-backed by someone he hardly recalled. The smell of old woods lured him to faraway land he didn't know when his back hit the soft comforter and tucked neatly under the blanket.

Someone was saying, he didn't remember either.

There was a touch on the head, a swift kiss on his cheek. He dreamed of his mother. He called out for a firm hand of his father.

There was nothing. And he drifted off to the land where everything would be just the same.

II.

Morning came and he was met with the universe.

A boy was standing still and back straight. His jet black hair looked soft but his deep blue eyes were piercing and observing. The boy was bare feet, his hands clenched at the sides.

he wasn't certain, bemused but unafraid. He knew somehow that this boy in front of him was unharmed and—just as him—curious. He thought of saying 'Hello'. But that would sound strange to both of them.

There was a voice calling from the doorway and the black-haired boy shifted and disappeared from his eyes. And then he was alone.

He was still on the bed. There was roll of beds. So many. He thought there were more than twenty. And something struck him. He wasn't in his room. This wasn't his home.

He inhaled. It was harder than he thought it would be.

III.

It was in the afternoon when he was told by a woman in formal attire that he was in an orphanage. It was situated on the outskirts of town, funded by the government and sponsored by some private institutes. All the children here were given full academic support. There were rules, cleaning duty and other things that he should be aware of.

It is like staying in a boarding school, she said kindly. Everybody here is brothers and sisters, she informed. She didn't say they would be kicked out of here when they hit the legal age and after that, there would be no siblings, no home, no support. They would be on their own, hurt and broken.

He was introduced to those who had stayed there longer. Couples of whom were of the same as him. There were older ones, but plenty of them were younger. A toddler was sleeping in the arms of the caretaker.

That boy was standing silently among the group before him. "Martin", he was called. It was an ordinary name for an ordinary boy who was found sitting lifelessly in an abandoned alley. He was later told that the boy had been taken here two years before and that he would always be found underneath the big tree outside, sometimes alone, sometimes with younger kids who barely know nothing of the world.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, "I'm Timothy" that was all he could say before they were dismissed. He found himself wandering around the premise while everybody else could be seen playing and laughing in the yard.

Martin was sitting, his back against a big trunk of the tree, a book in hand. Timothy hesitated but strolled forward. The breezes were picking on his hair. Clouds formed in the distance, the smell of rain.

Martin said nothing when he sat on the grass at a safe distance away from him. Timothy looked upward and met with nothing but green.

He didn't know when he gave in to slumber, but when he felt his shoulders softly shaken and opened his eyes to see the caretaker looked at him with such worries, it was already time for dinner.

There was a blanket on his body. And Martin was gone.

IV.

"Thank you," he said when they were assigned to clean the dishes together.

Martin wasn't looking: "for what?"

"Blanket"

"It wasn't me"

Timothy just hummed. That night Timothy noticed Martin was sleeping with arms folded before his chest. A blanket was nowhere to be seen.

V.

It took him less than a week to befriend the kids at the orphanage. Timothy was always seen smiling as though he was the happiest boy in the galaxy. He was dear to the caretakers and excelled at anything he laid his hands on.

"A boy wonder,'' they would say followed by a low whisper "Such cheerful boy. It's a wonder how he can stand tall when both of his parents and little sister were consumed by that fire."

"Timothy" Martin called him, too loud that made the caretakers flinched, they turned around. Their faces were equally paled when they saw the boy of conversation stood behind them.

"Timothy," Martin tried again, grabbing the other boy by the arm. "It is our duty to do laundry, let's go."

A moment later, when they were rounding the corner, Timothy softly said;

"It isn't"

Martin didn't look back as he kept walking along the corridor. "What is?"

"We don't have to do laundry today. It's Aston and Michael's."

He stopped, silent before he said, "I know." And started heading forward again.

Timothy was quiet all the while, and if Martin saw the strains of something under the boy's eyes, he said nothing.

VI.

Martin was asked to braid a girl's hair.

"I can't," he said promptly. Timothy who was passing by with a few boys jogged toward them. Seeing Martin's troubled, and funnily terrified, face and Lizzy's disappointment, he asked if there's something he could be of any assistance.

"Absolutely." Martin was relieved, smiling a little. "I don't know how to braid."

"I can show you." Timothy said simply. "It's easy. All you do is separate the hair into three parts and make one on top of another."

Timothy was demonstrating. When he finished, Lizzy turned to look at him, eyes sparkled.

"How do you know how to braid?"

"I used to do it for my sister." He said with a smile.

Lizzy inclined her head to one side. "I don't see your sister. Will she be here as well?—oh, or she's adopted already?"

Timothy's lips were sealed. He was still smiling. One could hardly spot the tremble of the corner of his mouth.

But Martin did, and all he did was wordlessly untie the band and loosen the girl's hair until it was curly and bounced around her mid-back.

"Hey!"

"You ask me to do it and I will do it." Martin interrupted, his hands were already caressing the girl's hair. Looking straight at Timothy, He was determined when he said, "Now, teach me."

It was warm outside, and everybody else was running underneath the sun. They didn't notice that there were some missing. The caretaker was about to enter the dining room to prepare the food ahead when she spotted two boys hovering above Lizzy. At first, she thought they were fighting as she heard shouting and witnessed hands flying at one another.

And then she was surprised by Martin's small laugh. The boy had been silent and dull since he was taken here years ago. And now the boy was smiling. Not so brightly, but still, it was there where the lips were quirking upward and those eyes as lively as those of the boys of the same age should be.

She was taking a quiet step into the kitchen when she heard it.

"That's not it, Christ!" Timothy was yelling. "How many times did I show you already?! You cross this one on top of this one, and top this one with this one!"

"Oh my God, do you hear what you yourself are saying?" Martin's voice was on the verge of losing patience. "Lizzy, I think you are pretty enough with just a ponytail. Braid will only make your face look rounder."

"Oh—shit"

"What?"

"Round?" Lizzy blinked, "What do you mean by that? Are you implying that I'm fat!?"

"Bless yourself Martin. You just enrage the lady with a forbidden word. You've got my condolence, my friend."

"What happened to Martin?" Another caretaker came up to her, concerned. "Did he get into a fight, I don't think I've seen him outside with everybody this afternoon."

"Oh no, nothing like that." She replied happily. "Martin was having fun."

VII.

"Ever thought of leaving this place?"

"Hmn," Martin turned another page, looking bored. "many times."

"Why don't you then?"

"Stupid question, I'm not answering it."

"Hey—"

The book gave a soft 'thud' when it was closed and moved to the side. Martin looked into Timothy's eyes, seeking, searching. He smirked a little when he heard the other boy gulp.

"It's because this is my home." Martin shrugged. "The people here, they are my family. There will come a time when I have to leave this place, and it all will become only a quick flash of the memories. But until then, this is my home."

VIII.

It was around the middle of the night when he groggily woke up by the sound of setting alarm. He quickly turned it off, looking around to check that no one was taken back from dreamland. Timothy carefully stepped off the bed and went out of the room. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the corridor and walked out of the building.

He cursed himself inwardly as he forgot to wear slippers when he felt a soft touch tickle his bare feet. The boy was headed to the ladder and climbed up, one foot after another.

When he almost reached the top, a hand extended to him. Timothy didn't hesitate as he grasped it and was pulled up until he was sitting on the roof.

Martin's hair was the same shade as the night sky. His eyes were deep blue but with a remnant of gold and silver. They were beautiful like he was looking at the ocean where lay hidden the treasure box of coins and golds.

Timothy lay on his back while Martin propped himself up on the elbows. He closed his eyes. Timothy did the same.

They said nothing to each other. It was at this time that they could let themselves loose and think of nothing, not tomorrow, and not of the near future.

The sky was singing. That night, there were only he and him, on the roof, and that was enough.

Timothy thought it was enough.

IX.

"Have you ever felt lonely?"

Martin gave him a funny look. "What gets into your head?"

"Just answer the question."

"Uh—no," He quirked a brow at him, "have you?"

"Duh-uh"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I am so not lonely because of you."

Martin was quiet. Timothy was waiting. And then;

"Huh," he heard Martin murmur, "me too."

X.

The days and nights spent at the orphanage went by in a swift blur. One moment he found himself pulled into those pools of the deep ocean, a moment later he was slapped with a reality that he actually had cousins that cared enough to take him in.

It was his uncle, apparently. He has just come back from the long stay in another country when the news finally reached him that his brother, along with his family, was taken to the place where no living beings were allowed to enter.

Except for his nephew who got lucky enough to escape death and was staying at the orphanage out of town. This uncle of his he knew nothing about was adamant about taking him back. When he was informed of that, everybody came to him. There were shouting and smiling, telling him that he was loved by God, that he finally found a place to call his own.

Oh—, Timothy thought sarcastically. If only they knew.

He promised to write tons of letters to them. How can he ever forget all of them, he said. He patted Aston's head and tousled Michael's hair until it became a ball of mess. He came up to Lizzy, crouching down so their eyes were on the same level. Now that your best hairdresser is gone, he said, his fingers traced along the single braid on her shoulder, you'd better hurry and find someone else to replace me, otherwise, Martin will definitely have your hair in a ponytail forever.

Lizzy was the first, and not long after that, they were all crying. A boy who was once a toddler sleeping in the caretaker's arms jerked and played with his finger. He was so innocent and pure. He was clueless that when the morning came, one bed would be empty and they wouldn't be able to see each other again.

And then, amid all that and among them all, it was Martin.

Martin, Timothy cried silently, Martin Martin *Martin*

He was offered a hand. Timothy was looking at him. He didn't even lift those pools of the ocean to meet him. his entire face was hidden under those strands of jet black hair.

So many words were left unsaid, he heard them all.

Timothy crushed their hands together, squeezing to the point it hurt and let go.

XI.

Timothy was shaken up from his slumber by the light through the windowpane. Yawning, he changed in a new cloth and descended the stairs. He walked past the living room where the television was on but no one was watching and settled himself at the counter. He poured himself a glass of water when his uncle suddenly bolted through the doorway.

The man in his forties looked anything but neat. His hair was disheveled and his shirt was still strained with drops of coffee from two days ago. The look on his face was hilarious though Timothy couldn't bring himself to laugh at the display. Something was shouting inside his head. And that wasn't good. Nothing ever came out positive when someone stomped in with such expression of terror and dread.

"Have you heard it?" His uncle asked, voice filled with uncertainty.

"What do you mean?"

"Turn on the news." He said, and then stopped. He went to the living room and within a second, came back with an iPad, the screen captured one article that he was told to read.

"Deep breath" his uncle warned with a worried look.

Timothy was confused but did as told. He looked down at the flashy screen, scanned through them idly, and, all of a sudden, he found it hard to breathe.

"Timmy?" His uncle's hands slapped on his shoulders, "Oh my God, Timmy do you still hear me?"

"No," Timothy whispered, his eyes bulked—almost popped out of the sockets. "No, no, no, it isn't happening. It's not real. "

He found it harder and harder to breathe. His hands went around his throat. Fingernails dug into his skin as if it would help him squeeze in as much air as possible since his lung had long forgotten how to work. It started to hurt. He hurt. He so damn hurt. To the point that his knees buckled and he was yelling.

He was crying.

Timothy was crying. Not when he knew that his family was gone, not when he was told his house was burnt to ashes and that he had to stay at the orphanage, not when he finally realized that there would be no more of life that he expected it to become had he shed a single tear. He was closed to give in, so many times. But because he knew that there were still those people who were also abandoned by God, that there were kids whose futures have yet determined and all they couldn't careless was having fun underneath a ray of light. They were his family. The orphanage was the closest place he could proudly call it home.

And then there's Martin. A boy with dark hair and deep blue eyes who approached him silently on the first day and stayed by his side from that moment onward. It was subtle, a small movement of gratitude. Yet, it was him that Timothy felt comfortable with the most. It was him that showed Timothy things that he had thought of it as ordinary to be so special. He promised Timothy that everything would be all right. They could still thrive big and conquer the world even though they were incomplete.

Because it was all right to lose family and be trashed in a dirty alley, to have a permanent scar on the ankle and be treated like a dog instead of a being of the same species, to fear of what would be coming next and to fight head-on just to survive another day.

But it wasn't, was it?

the article, in red bold letters, read;

The orphanage filled with black smoke, it is still too early to count the death toll

The orphanage located in the countryside was reported to have caught on fire early in the morning. It was expected that the lightning was the cause of the fire accident. According to the witness, a bolt of lightning struck through the tree near the housing, hard enough to catch on fire. One of its branches fell on the roof and the black smoke was filling the air. When the fire trucks reached the scene, it was too late.

The orphanage was burnt down. There were injured people found in the woods behind, most of them were kids at young ages. There were also bodies buried under the wreckage. However, the police said it was still too early to count the deaths.

"The injured people were already sent to the nearest hospital, at the same time, we are sending the remains to the lab in order to determine their identities. " The police officer says, "They have to wait a bit longer."

XII.

Two days later, the names of the deceased, along with their pictures, were recited on the evening news.

They were painfully familiar, those names and those smiling faces. He remembered exactly how many kids were there before the accident. Including the two caretakers, there were forty.

The names and faces showed on the screen counted seventeen. Thirty-seven more kids were being hospitalized and under careful surveillance. It was at that moment that the reporter was interrupted and the staff came, whispering something into her ear.

"It is never a good thing to be the one to break such heartbreaking news," she said, her lips pursed. "However, it is my duty to inform all of you that the seven-year-old boy named Aston has passed away due to the serious injuries on the back this evening. We offer our sincere condolences to the lost and may they rest in peace."

The room was swallowed by darkness. No single light was allowed in his room.

The number added up to eighteen. Martin's name hasn't yet shown on the screen.

He sighed in relief, and he hated himself for that.

XIII.

He went to pay a visit to the hospital.

It was hard, but he had to. He had to because behind this very door was his brothers and sisters. He had allowed himself to be sad long enough. It was his duty to make sure that everything would be all right.

So yes, he just needed to open the door, his hand was already on the doorknob.

Just one push, he thought. A push. Why the hell can't you do that?

And because Timothy was still a kid and was faced with a loss for the second time, he allowed himself to cry some more.

Cried, cried, cried. Until he couldn't breathe until he lost for air. And before his knees gave in, he looked forward. His back was straight. He was ready.

He couldn't have but he did. He knew Martin would have done the same.

XIV.

It took him even longer to go to the cemetery.

His hands were full. A bunch of bouquets, there were flowers of all kinds. His uncle had taken him to the flower shops that morning. He was told to pick the flowers.

It shouldn't be that hard, choosing flowers. But Timothy was dumbfounded, so the owner of the shop came to his rescue. He was asked what kind of flowers he wanted. His answer was a simple 'I don't know.'

The shop owner probed more; Who do you give it to then?

My friends, he choked out, my brothers and sisters, my *parents*

He crouched down in front of one of the so many headstones and slowly put a small bouquet down one by one. When his hands were empty, the sun was already setting.

The air was steel. He inhaled deeply.

It was dark. He heard the wind whisper something to his ears, then it was the night, the stars, and the dusty sky that started to sing.

Timothy was humming to the note he had heard from nights on the roof.

XV.

It occurs to him many times, more and more lately.

Timothy opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice. There were no tears but he could still feel the ache there. Not as much as before, but he knew it would never be gone.

Like the scar on his ankle, it would be forever there with him. And he was fine with it. He has been fine with it for twenty years.

Timothy was a man now, but he was still that kid brought to the orphanage on the night of red and loss. And when the light came and he blinked again, he was met with the universe.

He heard from those whose lives were saved. He thought of those who were still alive in his memories.

And Martin.

There was always Martin.

A boy with jet black hair, and a pair of those deep blue eyes.

A boy who reached for him. Timothy just knew that Martin was still out there. He wouldn't let himself be tossed around in a hand of faith that easily. Martin was strong like that.

Timothy believed it, that Martin was still alive.

He had to. Otherwise, he couldn't have known how to make of his life.

So yes, Martin was there somewhere, shouting to Timothy that everything would be all right and come out just fine. Because he is Timothy.

And Timothy believed just that.


End file.
